the sun bleeds orange, a broken yolk for the fading blue sky to soak up as if it was toast.
i walk out to my parked car as a truck driver saunters back to the cab, wiping his hands on a white rag. he yells something at me and i pretend not to hear. i get into my car and slam the door shut.
meanwhile, clouds like the ancient scales of a serpent are layered down to the crest of the hills, melting like sugar into misty light.
i pull out and onto the street, looking for places to post my flyers. "Breathe," they say. i'd rather be in the studio, practicing my chaturangas.
the old osprey is holding his usual post on the bare, gnarled tree. he doesn't sound warning this time as i walk beneath him. his white breast catches fire in the sunset glow.
i pull into a tiny lot near a coffee shop. closed. a teenager in a red beanie flashes me a dirty look, shuffles through songs on his iPod as he hunches over on a bench, his feet on his skateboard.
a pocket of darkness hangs beside where the trail bends. the creek is dry, though it was running just yesterday. cool and green, the moss hugs the bark of the oaks tightly.
i move on, circling blocks. outside the Warehouse, a bald man in a pink flannel shirt draws on his cigarette. i see him standing outside the doorway often. i wonder if he's waiting for someone. or something. is he the owner? a patron? his eyes study the floor.
out beyond the grassy banks, the swallows swing in wide, fast arcs to catch a new crop of spring-born insects. above the dance, two hawks and a lone vulture.
i park again, across the street from a red and white church. a man walks by carrying a plastic bag heavy with groceries, muttering words under his breath.
the water is low. ripples lap at the rocks and reeds, are carried under the soft, dark bellies of ducks.
the sound of dishes and voices carries through an old, splintered window frame. smells of cooking waft down to the sidewalk.
i am a guest
without a name
i walk out to my parked car as a truck driver saunters back to the cab, wiping his hands on a white rag. he yells something at me and i pretend not to hear. i get into my car and slam the door shut.
meanwhile, clouds like the ancient scales of a serpent are layered down to the crest of the hills, melting like sugar into misty light.
i pull out and onto the street, looking for places to post my flyers. "Breathe," they say. i'd rather be in the studio, practicing my chaturangas.
the old osprey is holding his usual post on the bare, gnarled tree. he doesn't sound warning this time as i walk beneath him. his white breast catches fire in the sunset glow.
i pull into a tiny lot near a coffee shop. closed. a teenager in a red beanie flashes me a dirty look, shuffles through songs on his iPod as he hunches over on a bench, his feet on his skateboard.
a pocket of darkness hangs beside where the trail bends. the creek is dry, though it was running just yesterday. cool and green, the moss hugs the bark of the oaks tightly.
i move on, circling blocks. outside the Warehouse, a bald man in a pink flannel shirt draws on his cigarette. i see him standing outside the doorway often. i wonder if he's waiting for someone. or something. is he the owner? a patron? his eyes study the floor.
out beyond the grassy banks, the swallows swing in wide, fast arcs to catch a new crop of spring-born insects. above the dance, two hawks and a lone vulture.
i park again, across the street from a red and white church. a man walks by carrying a plastic bag heavy with groceries, muttering words under his breath.
the water is low. ripples lap at the rocks and reeds, are carried under the soft, dark bellies of ducks.
the sound of dishes and voices carries through an old, splintered window frame. smells of cooking waft down to the sidewalk.
i am a guest
without a name
